Favorite. Chapter 2. In Creative Search. Part One

This novel is fictional, you should not look for intersections with historical events. This is a continuation of Nikita Savelyev’s “Race Action Movie”, the first readers of which were the readers of F1News.ru…

Chapter 2. In Creative Search. Part One

– And, finally, the last, but the most important in importance. Can you imagine what happens in the country when the green racing car crosses the finish line first? We will wake up as heroes.

British industrialist, director of an auto parts factory and part-time head of the racing team Martin Carragher scrutinized the interlocutor sitting in front of him. Neville Reed was not distinguished by a heroic physique, was not tall and thin. By no means a handsome man. But the deep gaze, penetrating eyes, well-defined cheekbones and tightly compressed lips testified to serious willpower and stubbornness.

– Why did you come to me? Carragher chuckled. – There are still at least two English stables in the peloton.

“Your team was the one thing that didn’t miss a single game last season,” Neville replied curtly.

– If you have studied the results well, you should know that my boys only finished in points once.

– Are you responding? – Neville’s eyes flickered with playful lights.

“I want to understand you,” Carragher said.

“Your Carnall takes a serious approach to racing, I feel the potential and the results will come,” Neville rapped.

Look at the potential. Carragher shook his head. This man started to like him. Racers, of course, you cannot deny courage, but maturity in reasoning is usually not found in them.

“It’s flattering that a strong pilot like you has his eyes on my humble crew,” Carragher said.

Neville shrugged nonchalantly, seemingly suggesting that he get to the heart of the matter and brush aside the pleasantries.

“Of course it’s stupid of me to throw an offer like that around, whatever your motivation,” Carragher continued. – But look sober: you should forget about victories until our maximum finishes in the top five. Arguing with the Italians is nothing to dream about.

– Personally, I will strive to win at every stage.

– Stupidity! Even the slowest Italian car ahead with a useless pilot will bring good luck.

– Let’s start with the philosophy of the team – change the approach. And we’ll see there.

Oh, this young man, Carragher grinned to himself. Inconveniently, a stabbing pain in his side made it clear that he was no longer a youth, the pancreas was naughty again. Well, the heart doesn’t bother anymore, the pills still help. Neville, oblivious to the future chief’s suffering, still fixed his clear, unblinking gaze on him. He folded his hands in front of him. Carragher knew that those slender fingers could, if necessary, deftly handle a heavy steering wheel and steer a defiant nearly one-ton iron monster.

– Yes, the departure of the Germans will play into our hands – there will be less competition, – Carragher reasoned.

“There are no impossible tasks,” Neville shrugged.

“And I love your fuse,” Carragher grinned. – When I invested all the money I earned from racing in the production of pistons for cylinders in the 1920s, many also turned their fingers to their temples … But enough memories. From now on you are the pilot of the Carnall team. Shall we discuss the terms of the contract?

Marcel nodded dryly. And he doesn’t waste words.

“I hear the Germans gave their pilots generously,” Carragher began charmingly. – But we are not a car concern, our expenses are unfortunately limited …

No one would call Martin a miser, but the habit of bargaining has been firmly established in his life for about forty years, when, back in the war, he suddenly fell in love with motor racing – an occupation not for the poor. After whistling bullets, attacks with poison gas and tank shelling, racing didn’t even seem like a risky venture back then. Then, of course, he came to his senses. I realized that it is not worth tempting fate endlessly and managed to stop in time.

“I’m sure you, Mr. Carragher, are well aware of the scope of my contract with Rambert,” Neville said politely. “Three quarters of that amount is fine for me.

Martin quickly made simple calculations in his head, in general – not disastrously, let Neville cost him more than today’s pilots combined. But after all, a rising star in motorsport. Carragher sometimes invested a little bit in risky ventures, in case of failure – the losses are not great, but the profit can exceed expectations. Why not try?!

How will we divide the prize money? asked Martin slyly. “Half for justice?”

Race organizers pay money for high places. The amounts vary from stage to stage depending on the generosity of the contest organizers. Traditionally, the rider and the owner of the stall share these payments equally. True, some pilots believe that success is only their merit, and not the team’s, and they try to hit the jackpot more. Well, what test are you from?

“Of course,” Neville nodded indifferently.

– Then on hands?

– Nothing but…

– What? Carragher was concerned.

‘I’ll give half my profit to the mechanics,’ Marcel snapped.

“Why?”

– Let the guys rejoice in success, besides, money is an additional incentive, there are no rich people among them.

“It’s up to you,” Carragher grumbled.

“And I think your employees will appreciate it if the owner of the team does the same.” Finally, Neville smiled throughout the conversation.

“And you are not easy,” Carragher praised the future racer for the first time. – We have to wait for this prize money to start.

– And for this I want to get to know the car as early as possible.

“Go ahead before the fuse blows,” Carragher waved his hand. “Tests are imminent.

– Introduce me to the designer and engineers, let’s see what can be done.

Still Neville…

– Yes?

Why not Italians? It’s almost a title guarantee.

“I told you, Mr. Carragher,” Neville felt a little embarrassed.

“I remember: patriotism, national prestige, a British man in a green car,” Carragher sighed. If you don’t want to, don’t answer. It’s your business.

A week later

Approaching the mechanics, Neville did not deny himself a little joke and braked as late as possible, from which the boys quickly broke free, like mischievous schoolchildren when a strict director appeared. Neville scrambled out of the cockpit and patted the dark green hull of his iron horse.

– Are you kidding? – threw the chief engineer Roger dissatisfied.

“I care about you, it’s cold to stand in one place,” Marcel exclaimed cheerfully.

– And who isn’t fast? Roger didn’t hesitate.

“Everything is under control,” Marcel chuckled as he took off his racing goggles.

– Enough to force, – The Frenchman Georges, the co-pilot of the team, pushed the mechanic aside.

He, like Neville, managed to change colors over the years of appearances: at first he patriotically chose blue French, but things were honestly not important for that, then red Italian, but rarely could anyone get a get along with the despotic Mario Monetti for a while. for a long time, and now, having overcome the original animosity, he switched to neighbors across the English Channel.

– Your opinion? asked Georges impatiently.

“Yes, Neville, what do you say?” – approached the third rider of the team – the Englishman Leslie Turner. He didn’t start racing until he was twenty-five, but he proved himself well and showed a lot of promise, although he didn’t always get along with luck. He and Georges made a comical couple: a tall Frenchman with a thin, full-blooded face and a short, puny Brit with a simple face.

“The car is difficult to drive, you have to work intensively with the wheel in the corner,” complained Neville. – The gear lever is very tight, you are wasting time. On straights, the tachometer needle touches the rev limiter too early.

“Nothing new,” Georges grumbled.

“It all adds up to a loss of fractions of a second on every straight and every corner,” summarizes Neville. – Last season you were doomed.

Philip, Carnall’s chief designer, owner of a solid stack of engineering degrees and a cultured physiognomy, snorted with displeasure:

– Please note that we have copied the best decisions of the Italian teams.

“You only saw the outside, and the most interesting thing is hidden under the hood,” Neville replied.

– I have repeatedly said, increase funding for the engine building department. I hope your appointment will help you explain the importance of this direction to Mr. Carragher, Philip said.

“Consider the whole factory on one engine and plow, but what’s the point,” Roger sighed.

How’s my time anyway? Neville changed the subject. No need to blow up skirmishes until he himself has figured out the intricacies of his new team.

Roger glanced at the stopwatch and notebook.

– Minute forty-five. Four seconds worse than the fastest Monetti.

“In such a small circle,” Neville summed up gleefully. – And where would we be at the start if there was a race today?

– Tenth place.

– Where does it fit? Marcel asked irritably.

“But you’re very stable,” Roger consoled. – When I got used to it, I did five laps in one second, like a bull’s eye.

Neville just brushed it off and stepped aside, fiddling with the buckle of his helmet under his chin, which wouldn’t budge.

“We take care of the ratio of the gears in the box, Mr. Reid,” Philip called to him.

“I don’t think it will help, but try,” Neville shrugged. It is better for mechanics to be busy with work – these disciplines.

– Remind me of my best lap, – Georges put his head against the tablet.

“Minute forty-seven,” Roger said.

Neville couldn’t hide the fact that Leslie Turner couldn’t help but smile.

“Maybe my tires were just out of range,” suggested Georges.

The grin on Turner’s face widened.

“Leslie, it’s your turn,” Neville called out. – I will warm up, otherwise my legs will be terribly numb.

== To be continued…